Outies

by Pournelle, J. R.

  With no one there, the Gathering camp was high, windy, and desolate. Gone was the eerie chanting; gone the fires and smells of cooking. Gone were picket lines and tents. The space was cleared as if never inhabited: rocks re-distributed at random; tracks brushed clean; manure burned and ashes scattered. Asach marveled at how the mind worked: how emotions waxed nostalgic over something that was so recently so strange. Stars punctured the evening air, twinkling in the distant lake.

  Enheduanna made to leave, leaving Asach alarmed at the emptiness. Laurel was unconcerned. “Another island will come,” she said. “Tomorrow—maybe the day after that. It depends on the rains.” Asach huddled within the cloak, the night breeze chill after their days of sun-soaked confinement, imagining a coming misery of muddy damp.

  They heard the edge-of-hearing chitter they now associated with Runners. One materialized as from the air itself, with a small package and a message for Enheduanna, who called for light. It appeared, from a distant, unseen point. The Runner everted an iridescent ruff of hair around its head that settled into a mirror-silver cowl focused on the packet. Enheduanna extracted three crystalline disks, and rolled one in each hand. The first was clear as a window pane. The second was the warm, fading lavender of sunsets. The third glinted with the bright, clear aquamarine of Laurel’s eyes. Enheduanna explained. “These are from the sand mines, and from—conveyances, hardened with ceramic covers, carrying weapons. The weapons flash green, like the Beacon.” Enheduanna proffered the hand-sized lavender gem, sides and back dulled silver by the ceramic reflective jacket in which it was cradled. “Then they cut with light.” With the gripping hand, Enheduanna extended the transparent crystal, almost invisible in the near-dark. “This is what they mine. This is what they make.”

  “Weapons?” asked Laurel. She grasped the thing. It dwarfed her hand. “Like tool and dye cutters?”

  Asach marveled at one so young, and from a farmstead so remote, that the rolling fire of mercenary gunners had never swept her life. “Good God. How many did they find?”

  “A Grasp at least, maybe an Accountant’s Hand, of each.”

  Asach struggled to remember the collective nouns of Mesolimeran commodity accounting, and gave up. “Show me, please.”

  Enheduanna flashed fingers: six times six times three times six times three times six—somewhere between two and four thousand. Asach made a low whistle. It didn’t take an officer’s commission to figure out that there were enough military-grade laser cores stockpiled there to equip an army.

  With the slowness of the utterly unexpected, Enheduanna’s words soaked in. Were explained. Were received with an involuntary shudder and closed eyes. Asach could taste the actinic blood and cold bile of fear that had welled in those poor sods who’d had nothing more than a day’s work on their mind before they’d died at the, for want of a better word, hands of aliens. The likelihood that Sargon’s attack had been communicated to—someone—was now overwhelming. They were out of time.

  “Enheduanna, how long until the children arrive?”

  Voices chattered. Lights twinkled. Time passed. Clouds scudded past, blocking shreds of stars. “Soon,” was the only reply. They waited.

  Enheduanna peered intently at Laurel. “You have pledged your Swenson’s people as allies. Their assistance is now required.”

  Laurel shrugged. “Here? Tonight?”

  Asach’s skin crawled with foreboding. “Laurel, we have to get back. I must communicate with Bonneville. You must talk to Collie.”

  She shook her head. “And where would I do that? On foot? At night?” She shrugged. “The nearest ‘optic jack is at the old OLaM strip on the other side of the mountain. That’s a full day, even with mules, in daylight. Unless there’s some other way you know of.” She stared meaningfully at the point where the cloak’s clasp lurked in the shadow below Asach’s chin.

  Then conversation stopped, as opaline ghosts flickered across the underside of scudding clouds. For a few moments, both Laurel and Enheduanna followed the iridescent play, then instinctively averted their eyes. Asach was nearly blinded by the sudden emerald dazzle that shot up through the hazy sky. The overcast was thickening. The Eye’s reflection cast the valley in an eerie greenish glow, made the more ghastly as its pale shine caught and released the upward-falling snow of thousands of fluttering wings that spiraled heavenward, searching for true starlight.

  Enheduanna picked up the thread of conversation, gesturing at a line of dark shapes disappearing into the night. “The rains have begun. The Protector’s Army is on the move. It will reach The Barrens tomorrow, marching from the south. Others will follow you, over the passes to the western slopes. To prepare, a Grip of Miners and Farmers is moving forward now.”

  Laurel shook her head again. “Why now?”

  “Because they will come,” said Enheduanna, one hand still clutching a laser core, gesturing westward. “Won’t they? Won’t the Masters of these come now?” With the gripping hand, Enheduanna waved east and south. “And when they do, they will be destroyed by Sargon’s Army. So, we will need all our allies. To make clear who is friend and who is foe. To prevent them being reinforced. To prevent fear within your cities. To help hold passes through the mountains.”

  Asach shuddered. Or to be cannon fodder for Friedlander armor. “I can send a message to colleagues in Saint George. Maybe they can get through to Bonneville, and from there to Collie. It may take all night.”

  Enheduanna showed interest, but did not question this statement, instead speaking again to Laurel. “Perhaps it would be faster if you ride? Runners could accompany you to relay messages. As we did with the children.”

  “Ride? Ride what?” Laurel’s head swiveled side to side.

  “Your Porter. We attempted to bring it to you, but it does not like us. It shies away. It strikes out and bites. So we left manna every night for that beast and three others. They seem all right.” Enheduanna gestured toward the distant lake. Several dark shapes stood like boulders against the dark shore, distinguished only by the absence of reflections in the water where their bodies blocked the light.

  Then Laurel heard a distant whhooo, like a giant blowing warming breath into cold, cupped palms. The wind shifted slightly, accentuating the ripples that blew away from them across the water, and by contrast, the silhouettes at the shore.

  “Agamemnon?!”

  A sharp whinny pierced the night, followed by raucous braying from three long-ears.

  Laurel was already running, her words trailing out behind. “You bring the kids. Radio whoever, take the mules, and bring the kids to the OLaM strip.”

  “But I don’t know the way!”

  “Leave at daylight. Follow the marked trail. Take every turning west or north. Give the mules their heads. It’s the closest water. They’ll find it.” Laurel’s voice was growing fainter in the distance.

  “But wait! What will you do? What will you tell Collie?”

  Laurel stopped, and spun in her tracks. “That the revelation is nigh! That behind me follows a Host of Angels!”

  The ghastly light winked out. They saw nothing. They heard low rumbling nickers, followed by snorting and snuffling and stamping. Then hoof beats, as a black shape departed the valley in the blackness. Then Laurel’s silvery voice, sliding away down the hillside: “I’ll be there by dawn!”

  Enheduanna made a murmur, and two ghosts slipped away to follow, fluttering wings marking their passage into the night.

  Asach bent to one knee, already unzipping hood from cloak.

  15

  Final Accounting

  If you are going to sin, sin against God, not the bureaucracy. God will forgive you but the bureaucracy won't.

  —Admiral Hyman G. Rickover, New York Times, 1983

  For the sin they do, by two and two, they must pay for one by one.

  —Rudyard Kipling, Tomlinson

  Bonneville, New Utah

  There was pandemonium at the Bonneville Lynx port when Lillith Van Zandt arrived. She marvele
d. News of the sand mine massacre had spread like wildfire. It was a secret operation, conducted by secret contractors, in a secret location, on the other side of some barren mountains across a barren wasteland on a world no civilized person had ever heard of, yet ITA hangers-on were already hopping into port like fleas from a drowning rat, while the rest of Bonneville slept on.

  Almost the rest. The warehouse district abutting the SunFreight spur was ablaze with light, and the source of the “leak” became obvious. Sergeants were barking and waving their arms about in a midnight dance of getting armored vehicles onto flatcars. Access to OLaM’s leased bays was tightly restricted, but the Klieg-lit movement from the concealment hangers was visible throughout the yards. They were odd-looking lumps assembled from local components and materials, including Plate recycled from older, derelict equipment.

  She found the Friedlander commander, and spoke only one word. “Well?”

  He shrugged. “Your contract specifies cost control. There was no apparent threat. There’s nothing out there. Wasn’t. We sent out a platoon for Phase I weaponization testing with light security, but held the heavier stuff here pending full-scale fire-and-maneuver. We’re shipping out to re-secure the location in two hours. Obviously, we’re not too happy with this outcome either.”

  “Re-secure.” Her tone bespoke icebergs. “Against whom, exactly?”

  “Not sure. Bandits. They were already there, whoever they were, which I guess means Himmists. Not really like them, but—” he shrugged again. “There’s no-one else out there. We’d have known if anybody had moved from here. Not to worry. They’ve got nothing that can stand up to this.” He waved a hand at the long line of flatcars.

  “And restoring operations?”

  He shrugged yet again. The quirk was beginning to irritate her. “Whatever they are, not our contract. I guess you’d need to talk to Trippe about that. It’s his operation, as I understand it.”

  She smiled thinly. “Yes, it is.” Mentally, she was weighing the cost of the survivor benefits clause against her growing annoyance and wondering whether, in this case, it was worth it. “And ensuring that they are secured is yours. I can’t say that I particularly approve of your cost-control measures. They have become very expensive.”

  He shrugged for what she decided was the last time. “Usual cost of doing business, on an outworld. One way or another. With all due respect, ma’am, our contract calls for us to secure our own operations, which is the weapons testing. It doesn’t include point security for yours. So from here on, you’re effectively getting an added bonus. At least until testing is over.”

  “Indeed. I’m sure that you appreciate the risks better than I would.” She turned away from the commander, called Clegg forward, and spoke to him, almost inaudibly. He nodded once, curtly, and faded into background again. “I will have a full damage assessment report—when?”

  “Two days, at the earliest. They’re finishing switch reprogramming now. We’ll rail to the end of the line at the old OLaM hopper field, offload, and move out overland from there. We’ll hook south around that mountain and either flush them out or tag them in the hills. We’ll move the assessment team in as soon as the location is secure. Trippe has the plan.”

  But he was talking to himself. Lillith Van Zandt was already leaving, followed by Clegg and his men.

  OLaM Station, The Barrens, New Utah

  Agamemnon stood spread-eagled, head hanging, chest heaving, sweat steaming from every pore, air blasting through his nostrils with the force of bellows. A stock tank stood within five paces, and his belly ached with longing. But, throwing herself from his back before he’d even staggered to a lurching halt, Laurel had shouted “Stand!” So he stood, heaving and gasping, a Good Boy, doing as he was told. They’d left at dusk; now it was dawn. He’d covered a hundred rough miles and left the Runners collapsed at the trail side.

  Red-gold morning crawled toward them across the plains as the rising sun crested the mountain behind them. They rested in deep shadow, the deafening whum-whum-whum of the windmill field above them. The fusion glow of the SunRail collectors were lighting up the path back to Bonneville.

  The airfield appeared deserted. The dusty junction of two roads to nowhere anchored the desolate shells of mud-brick and stone houses that had once served various functions for workers at the abandoned mines. An empty flinger gantry presided: a wingless heron on an empty beach. Only dust-devils played on the flat cross of the taxiways, two level strips in the level flats that stretched from the foothills into infinity. But Agamemnon threw up his head and stared into the far distance, so Laurel guessed that a train was coming.

  Agamemnon’s breathing eased. She felt inside his jaw: his pulse was still fast, but slowing. She walked with him the few paces, and let him sip some water a bit at a time. The easy way would be to ride down to the operations shed and call from there. It had everything, including an ‘optic line. But she didn’t want to get trapped on the airfield, and she didn’t know what was coming, or how soon. There was no regular service here, and it was the wrong time for a pilgrim charter. If Agamemnon could already hear it, that did not leave much time.

  She climbed back on. He swiveled his ears, not sure where they were going, because neither was Laurel. Then she decided, and feeling the twitch of nerve fibers that presaged actual body language, he abandoned the trail and plunged straight down the hillside, slithering and sliding and sending little avalanches of stone bouncing along ahead of their progress. Agamemnon jumped the last chunk of slope and broke into full stride, carving his own wind through the morning chill as he sprinted for the operations hut across the taxiway.

  There was a window. There was a rock. There was Laurel inside. There was Agamemnon outside the door, hip cocked in rest, just waiting. Every Seer knew what to do, and Laurel did it: She activated the emergency lines. She got through to Collie. Her first words, however, were not about the kids. Her first words were simple: “Uncle Collie! They’re coming!”

  He listened to it all. He didn’t say much. “Just get those kids to me, ” he answered. “We’ll take it from there. We’ll get ‘em home safe. We’ll secure OLaM Station. We’ll secure the mountain. We’ll have every gathering in The Barrens backing us. We’ll see it’s done right this time.”

  And then Agamemnon was off like a crossbow quarrel, back the way he’d come, retracing his steps back up through the foothills to find the Runners and intercept Asach somewhere along the trail.

  Bonneville, New Utah

  There wasn’t a city clerk alive in Bonneville who thought it the least bit odd that Zia Azhad would request access to titles and claims recorded at the public records office. Nor was it odd that she’d be at the door, awaiting morning opening. They’d known her from birth. She’d worked in the business since maturity. She’d spent the last decade in OLaM procurements. They did find it odd that she asked for Founder’s–era land tax rolls, but public records were public records.

  The basement was close and stuffy. Zia cursed under her breath. It was Barthes that was wanted here, not her—she had no idea how to access these archaic files. She fiddled with the clunky machine, trying to follow the pictogram instructions. She tried and failed to change the sort order and sort criteria. She struggled to figure out how to open a search. The interface was incomprehensible. Nobody there could help her.

  Finally, she resorted to thumbing down, page-by-page, eyelids drooping, eyes gravel-raw as she scanned for Orcutt, Courter, Swenson; Ocotillo Wells; Butterfield Station; Swenson’s Mountain; Swenson’s Valley; and a bunch of survey coordinates, moving backward through time on the reverse-order ledgers. Scrolled, and scrolled, and scrolled, and scrolled, in ever-increasing frustration, until near tears, she backhanded the screen, hitting—something—that made the file jump to its end.

  And there it was, on the oldest cadastral survey recorded in Bonneville. She froze, not quite believing what she was seeing. She moved the image up and down a bit. In that funny old syntax, laid out plain as day
, was an original Imperial deed, complete with surveyor’s map and description. It showed a geologic fault line on the eastern border of The Barrens, running at the base of the foothills. Everything to the east of that was not only ceded, but entailed in perpetuity to “John David Swenson’s heirs female.” The True Church couldn’t lay claim to it, because it was land that couldn’t be bought, sold, mortgaged, pledged, or given away. It could only move down Swenson’s line. If abandoned, it would revert to the Crown. Anyone who tried to poach it from Swenson’s heirs—heiresses— was, from a legal standpoint, poaching from—the Emperor himself. He’d even personally sealed it, “in gratitude.”

  Zia sat for a moment, tingling with that odd sort of numbness that follows a shot of adrenaline. Then she moved over to a conventional terminal to work on the easy part. It wasn’t even complicated, once you bothered to look. There it was: OLaM’s new owner-of-record: some blabbity-named consortium, majority shareholder: Van Zandt Mining.

  Zia pulled up the plat books for The Barrens. She’d never really had any reason to look at the old Orcutt landholdings: she’d only been concerned with getting things into and out of active mines. Once she did, the pattern was clear: over four generations the Orcutts had assembled a patchwork of parcels that added up to most of the land just west of that geological fault line, plus two big panhandles extending to Orcutt Station and along the OLaM SunRail line. Collie had held onto the family station itself, but everything else had been OLaM, not personal, property—first swallowed up by the TCM, and thence to Van Zandt.